


Pop

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humour, Liquid Ficlets, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This takes me back,” Lestrade says, wiggling his toes in the sand.</p><p>Mycroft, Lestrade, John and Sherlock at the beach.  Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pop

**Author's Note:**

> Written for stellary, who requested Mycroft/Lestrade at my writing meme, and for shouldboverthis's [Sherlock BBC Happiness Meme](http://shouldboverthis.livejournal.com/76785.html) on Livejournal.

“This takes me back,” Lestrade says, wiggling his toes in the sand.

Mycroft looks at Lestrade's bare feet and ankles. Tries not to think about the rest of Lestrade naked, though it's a losing battle. Reminds himself that fellatio and fine sand don't mix. And that sex of any kind on the South Bank pop-up beach on a Saturday afternoon would be a very bad idea indeed.

The publicity boasts that it offers 70 metres of urban seaside with 14 artist commissioned beach huts, celebrating the 60th anniversary of the Festival of Britain. Which is all very well if you like that sort of thing, but the end of April has brought a heatwave, so the place is swarming with children whining for ice-cream, theatregoers waiting for _Frankenstein_ at the National, mixed-sex pairs of teenagers exploring each other's tonsils... Mycroft suppresses a groan that's part distaste, part downright envy.

It was John Watson's idea to come here. Mycroft hadn't been keen but Lestrade's eyes had lit up at the word “beach”, and he hadn't been able to refuse. Nor had Sherlock, though he's plainly on the verge of a more than usually spectacular sulk, staring at the book-browsers outside the BFI and refusing to join in the conversation.

“What would be perfect right now,” Lestrade says, “would be a packet of crisps and a bottle of pop.”

“Lovely,” John says. “What kind?”

“Salt and vinegar, of course!” Lestrade sounds shocked.

“No, _obviously_ ,” John says. “What kind of pop?”

“Ginger-beer,” Lestrade says, not missing a beat. “You?”

“Fizzy lemonade,” John says, licking his lips.

Lestrade grins. “Might have known you'd be a secret lemonade drinker.”

They start singing some dreadful advertising jingle, probably from their childhood; he wouldn't know. Mycroft tries not to mind that the two of them get on so well, that would be petty and childish and altogether beneath him, but he does sometimes wish –

“What about you, Mycroft?” John asks.

 _Nice of you to remember my existence_ \- no. Better not say that.

“Cream soda,” Lestrade guesses.

“Tizer,” John says, giggling.

“Can't see Mummy approving of _Tizer_ ,” Lestrade says solemnly, and the two of them fall about.

Mycroft tries to look amused, but he knows it's not working, because Lestrade stops laughing.

“Come on, Mycroft, there must have been _something_ you liked to drink when you were a kid,” he says encouragingly.

“Ribena,” Mycroft says. Allowable because of its supposed Vitamin C content.

“Not exactly pop,” Lestrade says, “but it'll do in a pinch.”

“John likes that revolting orange stuff,” Sherlock bursts out, startling them all.

“Orangina?” Mycroft says, surprised. He has pleasant memories of discovering it on his first visit to France. His tastes have changed since he was eleven, but _revolting_ still seems rather an extreme judgement.

“No, Irn-Bru,” John says, grinning.

“Didn't have that south of the border in my young day,” Lestrade says, shaking his head.

“Nor mine,” John says. “Had a boyfriend in the Army who used to drink it.”

“Made in Scotland from girders, was he?” Lestrade asks.

“Mm,” John says, trying not to look smug and failing.

Sherlock gets up with a flounce, spraying sand over everyone. “I'm going back to the funfair,” he says thunderously.

“I'll give him a few minutes' start,” John says, watching Sherlock's furious progress, “let him work it off a bit.”

He looks at Mycroft and then at Lestrade.

“Or maybe I'll just go now,” he says, suiting the action to the word.

Lestrade puts an arm around Mycroft's shoulders and hugs him briefly. Mycroft moans.

“Tell you what,” Lestrade says, “let's have a drink and then go back to your place. If Sherlock starts playing on the helter-skelter again we could be stuck here for hours.”

It's true that Mycroft is thirsty as well as hot. And bothered.

“Had a brainwave,” Lestrade says, looking very pleased with himself. “Maybe one of these fancy bars could do you some pop.”

“Pop?” Mycroft says, trying not to pull a face.

“I was thinking _Kir royal_ ,” Lestrade says. “I know you're keen on that, and now it all makes sense. Fizzy Ribena, near enough. What do you say?”

 _Oh_. Oh, that _would_ be nice. They haven't had _Kir royal_ since that night when –

Mycroft finds that he's blushing. He's also feeling markedly more cheerful all of a sudden.

“Pop sounds a splendid idea,” he says. “Lead on, Detective Inspector.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ginbitch and partner for introducing me to the South Bank Beach and the funfair, not to mention demonstrating the helter-skelter...


End file.
